Théâtre de Rêves Cassés
by Undetectable Person
Summary: After being kicked out of the lodging house, Racetrack makes his new home in an abandoned theater with a clan of ragged bohemians, and begins a very different life.


Okay, this is a fanfic that I did a CC for on the Newsies Mailing List a _LONG_ time ago. I got a TON of responses, and everyone seemed quite excited about it...including me. Then I had some trouble with the first chapter, got started on some other fics, and simply...abandoned it. :'-(

Well, it's now being resurrected, original CC results completely intact, updates expected as frequent as possible, and I hope there are some people out there who still remember that they're in it. :-) Because a great many people are.

As to Appassionata and the little-known Serendipity, I certainly intend to keep on updating them, although obviously, juggling several fics can get tricky. And also...does the name Bittersweet ring a bell? Sequel to Song of Healing, my first fic ever? Long abandoned and forgotten by everyone but the ever-faithful StormShadow? grins Well, in case there's anyone else who _hasn't_ forgotten it, I intend to update it quite soon...and keep updating. Mary-Sue-ishness and all, I've missed my Flick and Secret far too much.

And now, without further shameless plugs, the debut for...the Abandoned Theatre fic.

Newsies Featured: Race...almost exclusively, as far as I can tell from my current mental plot development.

OC's Featured: Tuesday, Eire, Blue Boxer, Rouge Jazz, Dewey, Magpie, Sapphy, Sage, Seer and her sister Wisdom, Zippy, Puck, Trolley, Spy, Poker, Flare, Wheeler (courtesy of Trolley), Rachel Harpen and her family (courtesy of Biddy), Mother Goose, Cynic, Abby, and Falcon (all courtesy of Magpie), Christian/Kit (courtesy of Tuesday).

Disclaimer: Racetrack and all the other newsies belong to Disney, as do Kloppman, Medda, Weasel, and the Delancey brothers. I am using them without permission. No copyright infringement intended. No money was made. The other characters all belong to the people mentioned above. Flare, of course, _c'est moi._

Théâtre de Rêves Cassés

By Flare Higgins

**Chapter One**

"If you don't stop gamblin' away all your money, you're gonna get kicked outta the lodgin' house."

            How many times had Racetrack heard those words?

            After every horse race, every bet, every game of poker or blackjack or craps in which he came out with a penny less than what he had gone in with, someone issued him the same warning. Every time he had to owe money to Kloppman for a night at the lodging house, or to Weasel for his papers, or borrow a few coins from one of his fellow newsboys for a meal, the familiar admonishment was made. Racetrack had heard it so often that he had long since ceased to pay a shred of attention to it. Every time it was directed at him, he would merely grin, shrug, and use every appeal he could think of to raise the amount of the loan. Of course, the majority of these so-called debts were never repaid. But this fact didn't worry Race. After a few days of nagging, his friends or landlord would forget the incident until the next time they were called upon to donate to the Racetrack Higgins Survival Fund.

            It never occurred to him that there would be a time when someone would suddenly and most inconveniently stop forgetting.

            The catalyst of all the events to follow was set into motion one Friday night in mid-August of 1899. And it all started, of course, with a race. This race took place at Sheepshead Bay, just like the hundreds of other races that Racetrack had attended; the habit had, after all, earned him his nickname. His choice tonight, a longshot mare called Black Rose, was lagging miserably, and he was perfectly aware that he was in for a large loss. But large losses were hardly anything new to him. Once Golden Eagle had earned his victory, Race would just sigh, philosophically light a new cigar, trudge on home, accept the taunts and groans of his friends, and get on with life. He had no reason to suspect that life as he knew it was destined to end that night.

            The humidity of the summer night weighed heavily on Racetrack as he trotted through the familiar Manhattan streets, hands shoved into his empty pockets. Well, "empty" was not quite accurate, when they were stuffed with the usual array of cigars, cards, dice, his rusty harmonica, and his prized golden pocket watch. Such items, however, were not going to help him pay the rent that night. Normally he wouldn't have been quite so downcast, but tonight's loss had been considerable; and he could swear that Kloppman had seemed unusually irritated last time he'd had to use his notoriously lousy credit.

            _Ah well. I'll try and some sell extra papes tomorrow to make up for it. Maybe skip the big poker tournament in __Brooklyn__. It's just a few more cents. Kloppy'll live._

Choosing to consider that the last word on the subject, Race attempted to rouse himself from his uncharacteristically gloomy mood by watching the people he passed on the streets. The streets of New York tended to host an interesting crowd, especially after dark, and this night was no exception. Of course, in New York's nocturnal hierarchy, gamblers like Race probably made up the highest level of honor, and then it spilled right on downhill; from pickpockets and burglars to murderers and so-called "ladies of the night". But Racetrack was, like any member of Manhattan's lower class, used to this company, and for the most part it did not make him at all uncomfortable.

            Walking at an unhurried pace and observing the usual posse as it made its way along either side of the street, Race suddenly paused for a moment. He had come to the corner that turned onto Duane Street, the location of the lodging house, but found his gaze caught by a new sight in the crowd. A fair-sized audience was gathered around some sort of small performance. Rhythmic claps and encouraging cheers rose from the group, and every few seconds a coin or two would fly. Race arched an eyebrow.

            _This could be interestin'._

Of course, there would be no coin-throwing for Race, and he was already out long past Kloppman's curfew. But exceptions were always being made for him in that regard, and surely it would be all right to take a quick peek at the action without raining money.

            His mind made up, he began to push his way through the crowd. This was a rather frustrating task for someone his size. Anyone he tried to push past seemed to have no qualms at all about pushing back. Finally, he spotted a brief gap between a pair of spectators that was just large enough to squeeze through. Seizing the opportunity, Race darted to the front of the swarm, and stared at the spectacle before him.

            The side of the street was teeming with girls, ranging in age from eleven or twelve to their early twenties. Most of them were dancing, leaping and twirling in a dazzling display of talent and energy. One girl of about fourteen was singing, her sweet voice easily carrying over the roar of the crowd. And a few more performers, garbed in shabby but elaborate costumes, seemed to be acting out some sort of play, swinging wooden swords and shouting lines in foreign accents, for the benefit of a small private audience of their own.

            It was like spontaneous improvised vaudeville...better known as a street show.

            All thoughts of curfews and being broke fled Racetrack's mind as he became caught up in the scene. Slowly, as his eyes adjusted to the whirling colors, he found them lazily following  one particular dancer. She was mainly a ballerina, he surmised by her graceful fluid movements and frequent pirouettes, and a radiant smile never seemed to leave her face. Slim and petite, she had a pretty face, strawberry-blonde hair that swirled around her shoulders, and big blue eyes like twin sapphires. All the dancers were pretty good, but Race judged this girl as the best.

            "That'd be my friend Sapphy."

            Starting, Race turned to face the source of the voice that had spoken almost in his ear. He was surprised to realize that it was the girl who had been singing when he'd first arrived; she must have finished and stepped aside for another singer while he had been watching the dancers. Up close, he saw that she was small but able-bodied, with light brown hair that fell to her shoulders, partially in curls. Mysterious, friendly grey eyes gazed intently at him, about level with his own.

            "She's real good, ain't she?"

            Realizing that she was referring to the blue-eyed dancer, Racetrack nodded.

            "She wants to be a real ballerina someday," the singer added. "I don't think she should have any problem. Too bad you can't see Eire...she's amazing...a lotta my friends are. Most of 'em perform on stage, though. Sapphy and me do too, sometimes."

            "On stage?" Race frowned, glancing from Sapphy to the girl who was addressing him now. "I don't remember ever seein' you two at Medda's or anything."

            "Oh, no." The girl laughed softly. "We have our own stage." Racetrack's bemused blink only caused her to grin. "I'm Seer, by the way," she informed him.

            "Uh, nice to meet'cha...I'm Racetrack Higgins."

            "I know."

            Race gaped at her. "You _know?"_

            Seer merely nodded matter-of-factly. "Sure, I know plenty'a things." Suddenly her expression brightened even more, and she indicated a small square table with a chair at each end, set back near the curb, out of the way of the show. "Hey, care to have your fortune told?"

            Race, following her gesture, took a moment or so to process the abrupt change of subject. When he had, and when he absorbed the sight of the little table, with a single taper candle flickering in the center and an ancient-looking deck of cards off to the side, he felt slightly wistful. But the offer had also served as an unwanted reminder.

            "No money," Race explained regretfully.

            "Ah, well...don't worry about that. You can tell all your friends about me. Get me some more business. Advertising's always helpful." Race didn't even bother to consent to Seer's terms; she had already seized his hand and was pulling him toward the table.

            As he sat down in the chair opposite Seer, the shouts, applause, and cheers of the crowd seemed to grow distant to Race's ears. The glow of the candle flame seemed to expand, illuminating the surface of the table, and Seer's face across from his, in a ghostly light.

            "Nice atmosphere, ain't it?" Seer observed proudly. Seeing him eyeing the cards, she shook her head apologetically. "Sorry, I can't read Tarot for free...too much time and energy." **(A/N: I read Tarot myself and that's my opinion. Interpreting those things is _annoying..._)**

            Race nodded curiously. "Then how...?"

            In answer, Seer snatched up his right hand from the table, flipped it over, moved it into the pool of candlelight, and bent her head over it, squinting closely at it. Race watched, fascinated, as her index finger traced the lines on his palm.

            "Hmm...that's unusual."

            "What is?" Race whispered nervously, not sure exactly why he was whispering, except that the occasion seemed to demand it. "Short life line or somethin'?" He _did_ owe a lot of people money...

            "Oh, no, nothin' like that," Seer assured him quickly. "It's just that this particular combination of lines..." She swept her thumb over a small section of Racetrack's hand. "It means...well...a change."

            "Change?" Race echoed, unsatisfied. "Good or bad?"

            "Either," Seer clarified. "I can't tell what kind of change...but whatever it is..." She continued to scrutinize the lines like a scientist examining a specimen. "...it should be big," she finished firmly. "Awfully big. And awfully..._soon."_

            At this last syllable, a sudden breeze stirred the heavy, heat-drenched summer air, and the candle flame, which had until then remained perfectly still and vertical, gave a sudden violent shudder and sputtered out.

            "Seee-eer!"

            Race, who was still pondering what sort of drastic change might be in store for him, was startled to realize that the commotion of the street show no longer existed. In fact, looking back at the street, he realized that there _was_ no show anymore. At some point during his brief palm reading, it had ended, and all of the performers and audience members had dispersed, save two. One was the ballerina, Sapphy, who still stood on the curb, eyeing Seer expectantly. The other was a little girl of about twelve, who was currently approaching the table and calling Seer's name.

            "Seer," the child repeated, drawing to a hault in front of the fortune-teller's chair. "Show's over, we gotta get back. Sapphy says we can't be late again. 'Member how they sent search parties out for us last night?"

            Seer chuckled and rolled her eyes good-naturedly. Now that he got a good look at the two of them together, Race realized that the younger girl was almost a perfect miniature of Seer; they were obviously sisters.

            "I'm comin', Wisdom. Just had a little palm-readin' to do," Seer explained with a wink at Race. Rising, she pocketed the Tarot deck, handed the candlestick to the girl called Wisdom, folded up the table, and tucked it under her arm. Wisdom hoisted up one of the chairs, and Sapphy strode over to cheerfully take the other one.

            "Sorry I couldn't finish the readin'," Seer said, turning back to Race.

            "Oh, no problem." Race grinned. "Ain't like I was payin'. I'll reccomend the service to my friends. Thanks for the tip," he added with a comic little bow.

            "Any time," Seer replied, and started down the street with her two companions. But before the trio vanished into the darkness, Seer threw one last sentence over her shoulder.

            "When we see each other again tonight, you can tell me if my prediction came true."

            Race was still reeling from Seer's parting remark as he made his long-delayed turn onto Duane Street.

            _All right, it was probably just a typical fortune-teller trick. Make a last cryptic statement that'll bring the customer back another night. But she never told me where to find her again...and she didn't seem the type for that kinda thing..._

Well, it had certainly been an odd and mystifying thing to say, but Race didn't feel like pondering it any further. He had never been much of a believer in the supernatural, although he wasn't about to dismiss anything that made the world more exciting. What he was most concerned with at the moment, however, was the fact that he had just reached the door of the lodging house.

            Standing on the steps, hands shoved in his pockets, he tried to make himself the very picture of dejection. Carefully, he prepared in his mind the flawless new excuses that he would use on Kloppman this time, the heart-rending pleas for just one more free night, the adament promises that it would _never_ happen again. While all this was being fabricated, another corner of his mind wondered hopefully whether it might not be too late for a poker game, which he would most likely win...on credit, of course...and thus be able to buy his papers the next day.

            It was only when every one of these details was arranged to Racetrack's satisfaction that he casually gave the lodging-house door a tug.

            It was locked.

            Race stared at the door, wide-eyed, his hand still gripping the knob. He had been coming home late to the Newsboys Lodging House every night for three years. He must have been later than this dozens, if not hundreds, of times. But never, in those three years, had the door been locked before. _Never._

            Swallowing a sense of foreboding, he tentatively knocked.

            Several seconds passed. Race plucked absently at the buttons on his plaid vest, adjusted his black newsboy cap so that his hair stuck out the front the way it was "supposed to", and rattled a pair of dice in his pocket. Finally, to his deep relief, the door creaked open, revealing the familiar and welcome sight of his elderly landlord.

            "Heya, Kloppman!" Race greeted with his usual grin, stepping up into the front lobby. "How ya doin' tonight?"

            Kloppman, however, wasn't smiling. Nor had he even closed the door. It remained wide open, with Kloppman leaning on the knob, and the August heat seeping into the room, which was stifling enough already.

            "You're late, Racetrack," he pointed out in his stern, quavering voice.

            Race stared up at Kloppman's face in confusion. He was always late. It had never been an issue before. His various excuses trembled at the surface of his mind; they were for his lack of money, not for the hour of his arrival.

            "Um, yeah...sorry 'bout that. The race was kinda...long." His fingers closed longingly around a cigar in his pocket, but he had a feeling that lighting it wouldn't improve Kloppman's mood, since he had never much approved of the boys' smoking.

            "I see." Kloppman's bushy white eyebrows raised. "And can you pay for your bunk tonight?"

            That was his cue. "Well, see, sir," Race began respectfully, widening his brown puppy eyes and using his innocent baby face to full advantage, "Black Rose won by a mile tonight, just like I knew she would, and I was richer than I ever been in my life. But then, on the way home, I ran into this little girl. Couldn't've been more'n seven, y'know. And she said she ain't eaten in three days, and her mama died just last week, and she and her little sister and brother was starvin' on the streets, and of course I just had to give her my winnings or--"

            "Racetrack," Kloppman cut in sharply, "do you have the money or don't you?"

            His tone surprised Race considerably. He knew perfectly well that Kloppman was not the least bit gullible and would not believe a word he said, but he would normally be chuckling and shaking his head by this point, offering to add a nickel to Race's mile-long bill. Desperately, Race tried another tact.

            "All right, I admit it, there wasn't really no starvin' kids. I just toldja that 'cause I didn't think you'd believe the truth. See, the truth is, I didn't really go to the tracks at all tonight. I thought real hard about how you and everyone else is always tellin' me to quit gamblin', and I decided to take it to heart. I'd sold all my papes and I just headed right on back for the lodgin' house. But then I was passin' the river and I saw this lady in the water, thrashin' around and screamin' for help. There wasn't anyone else nearby, so I threw off my vest and jumped in to save her, and then when I got back to shore I remembered my money was in my vest pocket, but it was all gone--"

            "You certainly dried remarkably quickly after this incident," Kloppman commented with a hint of his old dry humor.

            "Dried...oh yeah! Well, see, I, uh..."

            "Racetrack," Kloppman interrupted coldly, "I want you to leave. Leave until you can pay your bill."

            It was then that Race's world turned upside-down.

            "L...leave?" He stared at Kloppman, at the old man who had been his landlord, his guardian, his advisor and benefactor, almost like a father or grandfather to him, since he was twelve years old. Surely that kindly, wrinkled face with a pair of spectacles perched on the bridge of the nose could not just have told him what he thought it had. _"Leave?" _ he repeated in a dry whisper. "Yer...yer jokin'." Of course, that had to be it! It was just like Kloppman to play a joke like this on one of his boys.

            "I'm afraid not." Kloppman's expression was gravely serious. Race was forced to believe him.

            "But..._why?" _Race struggled to comprehend this sudden, mind-numbing concept of exile.  "Look, Kloppy, I can pay for tonight. One of the boys'll spot me, you don't hafta. Then I won't go to the races tomorrow. I won't go for a week! I'll--"

            Kloppman sighed. "This isn't just about tonight, Race. This has been going on for years. It's been coming to my attention lately that it simply has to stop. I'm not earning what I should be, the lodging house is in need of repairs...money's tight. And furthermore, _you_ are not learning a shred of responsibility. You can't be a newsboy forever, Racetrack, and it's time you learned that when you're through selling papers, turning to full-time gambling would be the worst mistake you could make."

            The lectures were bouncing right off of Race. He was still grappling with the terrible sentence. "Like you said, I been gettin' back late and owin' money for _years._ Ever since I first came here. Why now?"

            "Because now," Kloppman replied grimly, "your bill has reached a sum that I am unable to ignore."

            It was this that caused another part of Racetrack's brain, the whole of which had gone numb at the word "leave", to thaw. The exact phrasing of Kloppman's exile sunk in.

            "Kloppman..." Race stuttered in horror, "didja say I gotta leave till I pay my _bill?_ As in the _whole thing?_  As in _every single night I never paid for?"_

            "That's exactly what I said...and meant," Kloppman calmly confirmed.

            "But..." Race could feel his eyes about to pop out of their sockets. "That's...I can't...I mean...how much...it'll take me years to make that much money!"

            "Maybe you'll go easy on the gamblin', then," Kloppman suggested gruffly. "And as for 'how much'..." Purposefully, he strode over to a small wooden box, positioned on his dusty desk near the registration book. Race recognized it as the one in which he always dropped the coins the boys paid him each night...well, most of the boys. Now, Kloppman lifted the lid, fished around inside the box, and withdrew a thick bundle of scraps of note paper. Race could see as Kloppman approached him that the scraps were covered with long columns of neatly printed numbers. One number was written especially large and bold in the center of the top sheet, with a dark circle drawn around it. Without ceremony, Kloppman handed the bundle of paper to Race, who read the figure and put a hand on the doorframe to keep himself from passing out.

            "But...I can't...there's no way I...this...ya gotta be jokin'!" Race finally pleaded again, having run out of excuses or more persuasive appeals. The reality of the situation was slowly dawning on him, though he was struggling to shut it out.

            _This can't be happenin'. This's crazy. It's gotta be a dream or somethin'. I'll wake up in my own bunk, with Snipes smokin' my last cigar, and I'll try to knock him out, and Blink'll jump down from the bunk above me and hold me back, and we'll all head to the washroom and get ready for a day of sellin' papes, and then I'll go to the tracks and lose all my money, and I'll come back here and make my excuses, and Kloppy'll let me stay on credit like always!_   

            But Kloppman's solemn face gazing down at him was all too real.

            "Where...where d'ya expect me to go?"  Race demanded, finally starting to succumb to panic. It was a perfectly reasonable panic, too. David and Les were the only newsies Race had ever known well who lived at home, and they were both back in school now. The Jacobs family had been rather cool toward the newsboys ever since Jack had broken it off with Sarah shortly after the strike. Medda might be able to help him somehow, but even Irving Hall would be closed at this hour, and Race had no idea where the vaudeville star lived. After her, he could think of absolutely no connections he had in the "outside world". He had never needed connections before. He'd always had the newsies.

            Kloppman was shaking his head now, but not in the amused, affectionate way Race was used to. "I don't know where you can go. There are other lodgin' houses in the area..."

            "I don't have any money!" Race reminded him. "None!"

            _Unless..._

            "If you could spot me just a few cents..." Race started hopefully. But the landlord was already shaking his head again.

            "You've got to learn to stop dependin' on others for loans. A few more cents'll just put you a few more cents in debt. You're gettin' a crash course in self-sufficience, and it may as well start now."

            "Hey Kloppy, what's goin' on?"

            Race spun toward the bunkroom door, which had just opened to reveal a gaggle of half-dressed, wild-haired, and very drowsy-looking newsboys. Jack stood in front, as usual, gripping his cowboy hat in one hand and still rubbing his eyes. It was about time all this chitchat woke them up, Race thought peevishly. Aloud, he summarized the situation in four eloquent words.

            "He's kickin' me out!"

            It was a struggle just to choke the statement out. Saying it made it true.

            "He's _what?"_ Cowboy and the others looked almost as stunned as Race felt.

            "Racetrack owes a bit of money," Kloppman told the boys mildly, "and he's going to earn it back."

            "You're throwin' him outta the lodgin' house?" Blink demanded incredulously, elbowing his way in next to Jack. "All of a sudden? Just like that?"

            Mush appeared just behind Blink, saying nothing, but appearing stricken. Race's stomach clenched at the sight of three of his best friends. Maybe they could find him a way out of this. But no...one look at Kloppman destroyed that fragile notion. Not even Jack Kelly, tough and charismatic leader of the Manhattan newsies, would be able to change their landlord's mind.

            Scanning the faces of his friends...shocked, horrified, outraged, upset, sympathetic...one last bubble of hope surfaced in Race's mind.

            "Guys," he said earnestly, "could anyone--"

            But this turned out to be a huge mistake.

            If he had not started to ask for money, there might have been goodbyes, consolation. The other boys would surely have tried to convince Kloppman not to be so harsh, and might even have succeeded. Race might have asked if any of them knew of a place where he could spend the night, and quite likely, someone would have. As it was, Kloppman instantly recognized the telltale beginning of Race's classic plea for financial assistance. Before he could get out one more word, the hapless young newsie found himself being virtually flung out the door. By the time he turned to face it, it had already slammed shut, and he heard a key click in the lock.

Racetrack Higgins had never been so desolate in his entire life.

            Well, perhaps when his mother died, back when he was eight. And maybe when his father died, although his despair on that day had only been due to being rendered homeless.

            Yes, those two occasions had certainly brought intense grief and loneliness; but now, sitting on the steps of the lodging house, his face buried in his hands, Race could not recall ever feeling quite the sense of shell shock, dizzying confusion, and bitter betrayal that came crashing down on him.

            He didn't know how long he sat there, slowly roasting in the sticky heat, surrounded by the uncanny silence of New York City on an unbearably hot summer night. He found himself wishing there was a bar or casino on Duane Street; whether to provide some noise and activity or a place to drown his sorrow, he wasn't sure. All he knew was that his period of reflecting on how much he felt sorry for himself was ended when someone tripped over him.

            Race yelped in pain as a foot slammed into him, pitching him forward, and then yelped again in surprise as an even louder-yelping figure went tumbling over him to land hard on its knees on the step below him.

            _"Sage!?"_

            "Race," the girl answered through gritted teeth, glaring ominously from her ungainly position, and ruefully rubbing one fresh bruise on her leg and another on her shoulder. "Out havin' a smoke?"

            "Hey, great idea! Wouldja believe I never even thought of that?" Race exclaimed, delighted at the suggestion. He promptly slipped a match from his pocket, lit himself a cigar, and clamped it between his lips. Then he rather guiltily extended a hand to the sixteen-year-old girl who had usurped the position formerly occupied by Sarah Jacobs.

            Sage regally accepted his assistance, straightening to her full and intimidating height of 5'10". With her long, dark auburn curls and currently furious teal-green eyes, clad in her usual male entourage of a dark green button-down shirt and black trousers, and finally including the feminine touches of a gold locket and a hair ribbon, she resembled a formidable queen even after tumbling down the steps.

            Against his will, Race felt a grin start to tug at the corners of his mouth. "Uh, sorry 'bout that, Sagey...but, if ya don't mind my askin', what exactly were ya doin' at the lodgin' house at this time of night?"

            Sage crossed her arms, her glare deepening. "If you _must_ know, Jack and I took a walk early tonight after he'd sold all his papes, and I happened to fall asleep on a spare bunk when we got back. Jack must've been horrified at the thought of disturbin' such a gorgeous little angel..." Race snorted loudly. "...so I just woke up about ten seconds ago. And apparently wasn't fully awake." She continued to check herself for bruises.

            Race was about to launch into full teasing mode; that had to be the most pathetic cover story he'd ever heard. But Sage's next question stopped him. "So what were _you_ doin' out on the stops, if it wasn't originally smokin'?"

            Race sighed deeply, his misery flooding back. "I got kicked out for owin'--" He fell silent mid-sentence, his mind racing back over his current predicament. Suddenly he plucked the cigar from his mouth, swept off his hat, and bowed deeply. "Sagey, darlin', have I ever told you how beautiful, and kind, and smart, and brave--"

            Sage was smirking before he'd even come up with four compliments, and she put an end to the flattery there. "No, Race, ya can't stay with me." With that, she turned on her heels, hopped down the rest of the steps, and started down the street.

            Watching his last chance disappear was too much for Race. Stumbling down the steps himself, he dashed after her, calling frantically.

            "Sage, c'mon! I got no money, nowhere else to go, it's just one night, if I end up sleepin' on the streets tonight and gettin' murdered, you'll be sorry--Sagey, _please--"_

            Racetrack was running so fast and begging so desperately that he didn't even realize how close he was drawing to his "last chance", and almost slammed right into her. Luckily, Sage turned and put out a hand to stop him before he could injure her for the second time that night.

            For a moment, she simply stared down at him. Then, slowly, she smiled. Race was too frazzled to notice anything sly or mischievous in that smile.

            "All right, Race," she said sweetly. "You can stay with me."

            Race grabbed her hand in a burst of sheer joy. "Seriously?"

            "Sure." Her eyes danced. "But d'you have any idea where I live?"

"Well?" Sage's voice was positively gleeful as she stopped before the door of one of the most dilapidated buildings Racetrack had ever set eyes on.

            It was large, of course. There was no denying that. It dwarfed any house Race had ever seen. But its once bloodred paint was badly peeling and faded. Those of the windows that weren't boarded up were cloudy, and veritable spiderwebs of cracks. The roof was sagging and full of holes and dents, the door was practically falling off its hinges, and the very walls appeared to be crumbling. To top it all off, the structure was set so far back from the street, and surrounded by so many towering apartment buildings and sprawling, smoke-spewing factories, that Race would never even have noticed it if Sage hadn't led him to the door.

            There was one thing he noticed, however, that pushed the appearance of the place to the back of his mind. From the other side of the door came a dull roar of voices. More than voices, but...he would swear on his life...music!

            He turned to Sage with incredulous suspicion. "This is where you _live?"_

            "Indeed." She smiled and leaned on the door.

            "Sage," Race demanded with a mixture of annoyance and exhaustion, feeling he had been through enough that night, "what _is_ this place?"

            Instead of answering, Sage grabbed his arm, flung open the door, and drew him inside.

            What they witnessed seemed to Racetrack to be a scene of utter chaos.

            Everywhere he looked, there were girls. Small girls and tall girls, pretty girls and plain girls, blonde and brunette and redheaded girls. Little girls and girls who were really young women. Girls in dresses and girls in pants and girls barely wearing anything at all. Girls with pens and cards and dice and instruments. Girls who were talking, shouting, laughing, singing, dancing, painting, writing, or quietly observing from the sidelines.

            As he watched from the doorway in his second state of shell shock within an hour, snatches of shouted conversation reached Racetrack's ears.

            "Trolley, what'd ya do with those costumes? Can't find 'em anywhere--"

            "Hey Zippy, can I see that book?"

            "Blue Boxer, get over here, we're rehearsin'!"

            _"Again!?"_

            "Tuesday, you still at that paintin'? Come socialize, hon!"

            "Dewey, put the novel down a minute, I'm tryin' to tell you somethin'--"

            "Jazz, let's hear that again, just a note higher--"

            "Spy, _hold still, _will ya--"

            "I like sunflowers."

            "All right, Poker, what innocent little boy didja corrupt tonight?"

            "Flare, it's a simple question...didja burn a hole in the shirt or not?"

            "Is Kit comin' by tomorrow?"

            "Don't even mention that name to me--"

            "Dunno, but I heard Mother Goose and the kids was--"

            "Is it true that Rachel--"

            "Anyone seen Magpie!?"

            "Sapphy, can we take that again from the top? I wanna get that one step just right--"

            _Sapphy!?_

Race was clinging in amazement to that name, wondering whether it could have been his imagination, when a small grey-eyed girl appeared out of nowhere, beaming and brandishing a deck of colorful cards. An even smaller version of her tagged along. Race's mouth dropped open.

            _"You!"_

            Ignoring him, Seer greeted his companion with a hug. "Sagey! We was gettin' worried. Need a special readin' tonight, maybe to find out what a certain cowboy's thinkin' about ya?" Seer waved the Tarot deck significantly.

            Sage laughed. "Thanks, Seer, but I'll hafta pass on that. Our guest's lookin' pretty tired. Think you can show 'im the balcony? No one sleeps up there these days, right?"

            Seer shrugged. "Not last I checked, although Flare and Magpie are always switchin' spots, and Dewey likes to try odd places for inspiration, and Spy and Wisdom once used it when they played hide-'n'-seek all night--"

            "'Scuse me," Race spoke up pleadingly, watching the cylinder of ash that his cigar had been reduced to crumble to the floor. "Is someone gonna tell me what's goin' on here?"

            Grinning, Sage slowly and deliberately turned toward him, sweeping a mock bow that Seer and the silent Wisdom echoed with deep curtsys.

            "Welcome," Sage told him with an air of forced solemnity, "to _le Théâtre de Rêves Cassés."_


End file.
